Free The Art of Hunting by Alan Campbell Page B

something designed to empower a body or preserve it from decreation cannot help but affect
that body in ways which are often not . . . entirely healthy. Wearing such armour is like drinking water tainted with a drop of brine: it will keep you alive for a long while, but it is always
going to kill you in the end.’
    Granger felt a pang of panic. ‘And the sword? What did you hope to learn from that?’
    The young prince gave him an enigmatic look. ‘As I did not create it,’ he said, ‘I cannot say. But it would be a grave mistake, Colonel Granger, to continue to assume that
you
are the one wielding
it
.’
    ‘Where is it now?’
    ‘The armoury.’ The prince raised his eyebrows. ‘You wish it returned to you right now?’
    Granger said nothing. God, how he wished they would give him the sword back. His fingers itched to feel its solid weight. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
    ‘I see it is working its will on you.’
    Granger looked away, embarrassed, then turned his attention to Ianthe. In truth he was glad to see her looking so well. Beautiful, even. Her hair had been cleaned and tamed. She looked like a
lady of court. It surprised him how relieved he felt to note the perpetual hint of insolence in her eyes; it seemed that every glance was a wilful challenge to his authority. She did not respect
him, and she certainly didn’t trust him.
    So much like her old man.
    But if she
was
truly responsible for the decimation of the Haurstaf, then he knew that the Unmer would try everything to prevent her from leaving them. The Unmer were vulnerable while
there yet remained a single living Haurstaf psychic to threaten them.
    ‘You must rest until your strength is fully restored,’ Duke Cyr said. ‘I think it is safe to remove your armour and let your body continue to heal naturally. In another two or
three days we will know if you are the original Thomas Granger,’ he smiled, ‘or if you are merely a sorcerous copy of him and a slave to the sword’s will.’
    ‘And what if I turn out to be a copy?’
    ‘The sword will use you for whatever purpose it desires.’
    Great,
Granger thought.
I might not be me.
He certainly felt like himself, albeit exhausted and somewhat foggy headed. But if he was merely a copy of his real self, then
wouldn’t he feel exactly that way?
If I’m not a replicate already, then it’s only a matter of time.
The sorcerous blade was exerting its will on him night and day, trying
to overthrow his own mind. And the Unmer had kept him asleep for eleven days already.
    So he wouldn’t cause trouble.
    They’d made a mistake in waking him up, because he wasn’t about to let his daughter be held to ransom by anybody. ‘I’ll heal faster standing on my own two feet,’ he
said, swinging his legs out of bed. His armour whirred, the metal plates refracting a kaleidoscope of light before his eyes. A moment of dizziness caught him unawares and he grasped the bedclothes
to steady himself. At once the light from the windows seemed too harsh, too hot. Some of the disorientation he’d felt in the forest returned. But then it passed. He took a deep breath and
said, ‘Ianthe, we’re leaving.’
    Marquetta merely blinked.
    ‘We’re not leaving,’ Ianthe said.
    ‘We can’t stay here.’
    ‘Why not?’
    He had to get out of here. He had to figure out a way to beat this sword. Maybe he could snap the bloody thing. Or melt it down. But whatever it was, he had to act quickly. And he needed Ianthe
with him. He looked at her in her fancy robe and he wanted to tell her that they didn’t belong here, but was embarrassed to speak such words in the present company. Where did they belong? He
wasn’t even sure if she belonged with him. And he couldn’t tell her the truth – that he didn’t want the Unmer to have her. To use her. Too many people had used her. ‘I
promised your mother I’d look after you,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I’m going to do.’
    ‘I don’t want you to